


Vibrant

by starrynightwrt



Series: The World Through Will Schofield's Eyes [1]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, I dont know what else to add, M/M, Pre-Canon, exactly 1000 words of me missing my lance corporal babies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:21:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22766191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrynightwrt/pseuds/starrynightwrt
Summary: In the split second Schofield laid eyes on the boy’s eyes, everything around him changed.It was like seeing a finished product of a painting that he had seen unfinished for years.
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Series: The World Through Will Schofield's Eyes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1643431
Comments: 5
Kudos: 75





	Vibrant

**Author's Note:**

> Based on that prompt where you see the world in black and white until the day you meet your soulmate.

Growing up with colorblindness was not something that he was born knowing.  He was told later after some revelatory event that there was this entire range of the world that he was missing out on. The world, through William Schofield's eyes, was nothing but a different shades of gray with occasional pinkish hue blurred together in what seemed like one unfinished painting. This altered perception of his wasn’t so much of a major cause of issue in his everyday lives, it existed more as a slight constant annoyance. One that he had learned to tolerate over the years. 

Now, with the war going on, being drafted into the military and all, had made  _ some _ aspects of his life easier in this particular context. No more struggling to pick out a shirt and questioning whether or not it matched his trousers. He no longer wondered what it would be like to see different pigments of people’s complexion or the burst of sunray on the verge of twilight, because every single existing beauty seem to be drawn out by the distant occasional scream of canon and gun fires. He no longer fixated on all those beautiful colors that he missed out, because for all he knew, with everything going on, the world might as well be black and white entirely.

That morning Schofield woke up from a dreamless sleep and found his entire world just exactly the way he had known it for more than 20 years - dull and lifeless. He did his routine, made his cot; folded the flimsy and ragged blanket and put it on top of another folded piece that he had turned into a makeshift pillow, put on his shoes, his tunic, his helmet, then sling his rifle onto his back before making his way out the tent. He was not in the mood for breakfast, just as usual, and he already knew he would regret his decision of skipping the morning meal later on that day. So, he decided to go down to the mess anyway to try his luck on stealing some biscuits or bread for later. 

There were lines of new soldiers standing just outside the mess, freshly shipped boys. Schofield didn’t really know much about the people around here, but he could really tell that these boys had just arrived just by the state of their uniform. The dark shades of the fabric, clean boots, shiny brass buttons, polished helmets, and the absence trace of mud. Their eyes look scared, but hopeful, faint spark and shine on each, had not yet been tortured by the long and weary days here in the trenches. 

Schofield's way was blocked by a figure standing on the entrance of the mess. This boy had his back facing Schofield. He tried jumping up and down to get a view pass the crowd in the mess before him. He was short, not skinny, but not exactly tubby. He was built like how you imagine a well-fed child from an english countryside would be built like. Schofield gave the boy a light pat on the shoulder and he flinched immediately. He turned around. Schofield blinked. 

In the split second Schofield laid eyes on the boy’s eyes, everything around him changed. He didn’t realize it at first, but he noticed something unfamiliar in the boy’s eyes. A shade of color. One that he had never seen before. It was soft and vibrant at the same time. He peered, eyes glued to the unfamiliar sight. He blinked. Then he blinked, again, and again. That color lingered there still. He braved himself, letting his eyes trail down the boy’s feature, he then found himself marveling at the boy’s rosy cheeks and bright complexion. He couldn’t move.  _ What happened? _ He tried blinking again, faster this time. Nothing changed. 

_ “I’m sorry, sir.” _

That voice sparked something inside Schofield. His eyes wandered.  _ What the hell happened?  _ He looked up, then down, then along the horizon of his sight. His eyes landed again on the boy’s eyes, noticing how the shade looked similar with the summer sky looming in the background.  _ Blue,  _ he thought. He looked down on himself, his fingers brushing slightly on the fabric of his tunic.  _ Green.  _

_ “Sir,”  _ the voice called,  _ “corporal, is everything alright?” _

The next thing he knew, he was running. Away from the mess, the crowd. His steps rushing through the crowded trenches, the boy tailing behind him. He arrived at the meadow and it felt like his feet were ready to give out any second, but he held his ground. There was really no way he could describe the sight before him. He spent hours at this meadow almost every single day here, he knew each tree, each flower bed, each path by heart. Yet, nothing seemed familiar to him. Everything was  _ elevated _ ,  _ saturated, beautified.  _

“Private,” he reached back to the boy, his breath laboured, “tell me, what color is the flower beds?”

The boy looked at him with question, "sir?"

"The flower beds," he repeated, "what colors are they?"

"yellow, sir, the wild daffodils," the private answered, still a hint of confusion in his tone, "with some red poppies, and purple cornflowers here and there.”

_ Blue, green, yellow, red, purple.  _ That was what they looked like. Those were words that Schofield had heard his entire life. He was told that the sky is  _ blue,  _ the grass is  _ green,  _ daffodils are  _ yellow,  _ poppies are  _ red.  _ Yet, those words never really mean a thing to him. Until now. It was like seeing a finished product of a painting that he had seen unfinished for years. Schofield was not the most emotionally expressive person, but at that moment, he could feel his eyes tearing up as he struggled to arrange his trembling breath. Schofield slumped down.

_ “Christ,”  _ he muttered under his breath, “it’s fucking gorgeous.”

Schofield took the boy behind him into account after a minute, he turned around, facing the dishevelled boy. 

“What’s your name, private?”

“Blake, corporal,” he said, “Thomas Blake.”

  
  
  



End file.
